“I’ll stand warrant,” she said, “for Maxence’s resolutions.”
Her father did not permit her to proceed.
“Enough,” he interrupted somewhat harshly. “Mind your own business, Gilberte! I have to speak to you too.”
“To me, father?”
“Yes.”
He walked up and down three or four times through the parlor, as if to calm his irritation. Then planting himself straight before his daughter, his arms folded across his breast:
“You are eighteen years of age,” he said; “that is to say, it is time to think of your marriage. An excellent match offers itself.”
She shuddered, stepped back, and, redder than a peony:
“A match!” she repeated in a tone of immense surprise.
“Yes, and which suits me.”